The Lion and the Hyena
by Delay88
Summary: Tywin and young Cersei are caught in a sandstorm on their way to Starfall and are rescued by knights serving the last Dornish matriarch. Tywin wants to thank her and move on, but the storm is not letting up. Lady Freya of House Blackhill sees a worthy bride for her son in the girl her outriders rescued, but she is having her doubts about the true purpose of her mysterious guests.


Freya was in the rookery when the bell sounded to signal the return of outriders. On a clear winter day, she would have been able to spot them from afar, but these days, all the eye could see were clouds of sand and dust.

It had been two moons since the raven from the Citadel had announced the beginning of spring. Whereas the rest of the realm always seemed to welcome the end of winter, Freya dreaded it, for with spring came the spring storms. No matter how many times her servants cleaned the halls and her chambers, everything was always coated in a fine layer of black dust.

Few people ventured outside while the sandstorms raged, but she'd sworn an oath that so long as the Hyena flew over Blackhill's Keep, the lands surrounding her castle would be safe for passage and free of brigands, so her knights went on patrol in even the fiercest of gales.

Freya left the maester to tend to his birds and set out for the kitchens. She would have to instruct the cooks to prepare a copious meal to make sure her returning men would be well fed. They risked their lives for her; they had earned the best she could offer them: chopped eggs, stuffed fiery peppers, marinated cheese, olives, plums, and a strong Dornish vintage.

The captain of her outriders found her in the kitchen. He was a man of eight-and-fifty, with thick, leathery skin and dark gray hair who'd patrolled the areas surrounding Blackhill's Keep for as long as Freya could remember.

He'd brought her a sack full of live vipers that he dropped on the table. The sight of the writhing snakes made Freya's mouth water. "Prepare them for dinner," she told the cook. She hadn't tasted grilled snake in almost a moon's turn; it was a very welcome change from her usual diet of bread, eggs, and cheese.

"We've brought more esteemed guests as well," her captain said. "A man claiming to be the Hand of the King, and his daughter. We found them three leagues north of here, trapped in a cave by the storm."

"The Hand of the King?" Freya furrowed her brows. "This far south? Perhaps the man spun you this tale so you wouldn't leave him behind in the desert."

"Perhaps," the captain admitted. "Though they carry a letter sealed with the King's insignia, it would seem."

"It makes no matter," Freya decided. "They are guests under my roof. See that they are well taken care of and bring them to the Great Hall once they are rested so I may welcome them properly."

* * *

She hardly ever used her high seat in the Great Hall these days, and that showed: it was covered in an even thicker layer of fine black sand than the rest of the Keep. Freya was glad she had opted for a dress of dark brown cotton rather than her lighter silken garb.

The man who claimed to be the Hand of the King was tall with a bald head, golden whiskers, and hard eyes. Her servants had given him a fresh set of clothes, so he was dressed in the black and sandy brown of her house.

His daughter was perhaps ten or eleven years of age. She had insisted on wearing pants as well and had pinned up her hair in a bun, making it hard to tell if she was a boy or a girl at first sight. She held her head high, her thin face motionless, but nothing seemed to escape her bright green eyes.

Their entourage was small, only five armed men and one maester, but Freya's outriders had reported that three men had perished in the relentless heat of the Dornish desert. Two others had wandered off into the storm never to be seen again, or so their lord claimed.

The Lady of Blackhill's Keep rose. "I am Freya daughter of Ryna of House Blackhill, sworn to House Qorgyle of Sandstone. I welcome you to my home."

The man bowed his head slightly. "I am Tywin son of Tytos of House Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock and Hand of the King. This is my daughter, Cersei." Indeed, a golden chain of hands lay snugly around his neck, Freya noted, though whether it was real or not she could not have said. Nor did she know what the Hand of the King looked like; she'd never even so much as seen the _King_ 's face except on a coin.

"Well met, Tywin son of Tytos," she said. "What brings you so far south? We rarely have visitors in this part of the realm."

"The King sent us to Starfall, but we got caught up in the storm. Your riders found us. We owe you our lives, Lady Freya." The man was nothing if not courteous, but she knew instantly that there was something he wasn't telling her.

"Starfall? You should have taken a ship. That would have been faster and much less perilous."

"Perhaps," the man conceded. "But there were unsettling reports of pirates off the southern coast, so we chose to travel by land. An imprudent choice with the benefit of hindsight, no doubt."

Freya nodded. "We shall give you shelter until the storms have passed and you can be on your way." She gave her guests a warm smile. "Come with me. You must be starving."


End file.
